


In which Tarvek has a shock

by Overlord_Bethany



Series: Always Send Knives [1]
Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Paris hijinks, Pre-Canon, yeah I am adding more characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 08:23:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15335799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overlord_Bethany/pseuds/Overlord_Bethany
Summary: This is probably the start of a new series. EDIT: it is.





	In which Tarvek has a shock

Tarvek breathed deeply of the morning air. Paris. Here he would find art, culture, sophistication. Here he could keep his finger on the very pulse of fashion. Here, he would never have to look at his father’s loathsome face.

He smiled around at all the shopfronts, taking particular note of a millinery on the corner and a bakery farther on. He felt lighter, having left the baggage of his father’s ridiculous obsession back in Sturmhalten. Here in Paris, absolutely anything was possible. He slowed his steps to admire a display of the most marvelous boots he had ever seen.

The wall just ahead of him exploded outward.

“ _Désolé!_ I’ve got it!” called a voice from beyond the rubble, bobbing between French and Romanian in a fluid way that tugged at the edges of Tarvek’s memory. No call for alarm, apparently. Everything was fine. Though the words aimed to reassure and diffuse possible crowds, the Sparky notes thrummed in Tarvek’s blood, calling him to action, pulling him forward.

He actually had his hands on the fallen bricks before he shook himself free of the impulse. What was he doing? He was no low-level Spark, destined only to serve and assist those with greater power. Shaking his head, he took a step back.

An ungainly Clank burst through the ruined wall, scattering a fresh shower of rubble in every direction. Shielding his eyes from debris, Tarvek saw a lone figure clinging to the command module at its fore. The crowd behind him gasped.

The Spark on the Clank swung himself up astride the command module. He moved with a wildness that felt oddly familiar. Here was a man who had grown up never once suffering an adult telling him to take care not to fall. Transfixed, Tarvek watched him smash the command module open with his fist and yank the drive impulse manifold free of the machine. Juddering against its own joints, the Clank sank down on itself.

The Spark hopped down, landing on the street before his conquered adversary just in time for the cheers and applause to start. Tarvek had to admire his showmanship.

His head swung around, as though scenting out the one person not celebrating his triumph. When his gaze settled on Tarvek, however, his bright grin faded and his eyes widened.

Looking into those eyes felt like taking a kick to the solar plexus.

“Tarvek Sturmvoraus,” he said, confirming what Tarvek already knew.

“Gilgamesh Holzfäller.” His mind reeled, and his heart hammered in his chest. How many years had passed? How could he know this man on sight, when they had parted as children? Tarvek had imagined this reunion hundreds of times, in myriad settings, but facing the reality of it now, he felt oddly tongue tied. What could he say to this man? You dealt me the most painful in the endless stream of betrayals that constitutes my life, but I continued your quest to discover your parentage anyway? He had neither anger nor joy, the responses he had thought most probable for such a moment. He felt nothing but deep, gaping shock.

“I… um…” Gil rubbed a hand over the back of his head, a nervous gesture Tarvek remembered well. “How’ve you been?”

“How’ve I been?!” The words exploded out of Tarvek in a wave of frustration. How dare he. “ _How have I been?_ You sent me back home! To wither in isolation with those miserable…” He choked back the rest of that accusation before any spies could carry it away, perhaps as far as Sturmhalten. “You _know_ how I’ve been!”

“Oh.” Gil shuffled his feet on the pavement. “I can’t really—”

“GIL!” Bursting out of the crowd, a young woman in a scandalously torn dress threw herself into his arms.

Tarvek lurched backward as though taking the brunt of the impact himself. A hot spike of jealousy stabbed right through him, pinning him within that moment. He saw Gil gently remove the girl’s hands from his person, saw him keep hold of her wrist. He saw their lips forming words, but he heard nothing over the rushing in his ears. Every cell in his body burned with a white-hot fury, screaming out a single question: Why do you touch _her_ instead of _me?_

Oh.

Oh, no.

He loved his betrayer.

Clearly, his family had done greater damage to him than he had ever guessed.

“Gil,” the girl was saying, “your friend looks ill.”

Ill was rather an understatement. Tarvek struggled for command of his respiration. Surely he was mistaken. Surely he had confused a warm rush of nostalgia and an unwelcome twinge of attraction for something more.

In all fairness, Gil had grown into an unreasonably attractive man. No one needed to look like that, all long limbs and powerful muscles and guileless smiles. Guileless. The nerve. Tarvek felt his composure fall entirely away, and he knew his heart must show on his face. He tried to swallow the dryness in his mouth. This would end badly.

The girl slipped free of Gil’s grasp. She stepped forward, one hand reaching out.

“Tiffy, wait,” Gil said, and Tarvek’s whirlwind of emotions slammed to a halt.

“Tiffy?” Tarvek repeated, incredulous. “You’re cavorting around Paris with—your pardon, mademoiselle, I mean no offense—a girl called _Tiffy?_ ”

Gathering her dignity as much as a person in a state of semi-undress could, Tiffy presented her hand to him. “Téofania St. Cyr,” she said.

“A pleasure, Mademoiselle St. Cyr,” Tarvek said, bowing over her hand. He kept his expression neutral, kept his surprise private. The St. Cyr family had allegedly died out three generations ago. Perhaps she used a pseudonym, but seriously, who would _choose_ Tiffy?

“Likewise, Monsieur… Sturmvoraus, was it?”

“Prince,” Tarvek corrected mildly. He watched, fascinated, as Tiffy tried to manipulate him. Her hand flew to her mouth, her cheeks flushed just a little, and she gave a startled gasp—all fake, but artfully done. What did she want from him? Or from Gil?

“Oh! I beg your pardon, _Prince_ Sturmvoraus!” Her hand to her bosom, Tiffy leaned into his personal space. As she did so, she dropped both her voice and her mask of coquettish alarm. “He’s _available_ , you know,” she murmured, her gaze flicking toward Gil. She bobbed upright again. “I do hope you can forgive me, Your Highness!”

Interesting. As clever as Gil had always been, he seemed not to notice that this Tiffy girl played him false. How could he be so obtuse?

“Oh, is that the time? Oh, no, I’m late!” Tiffy took charmingly clumsy leave of the both of them, turning at the last to say to Gil, “Will I see you backstage?”

“Backstage?” Tarvek repeated after she had dashed away. Gil nodded.

“Tiffy is an apprentice costumer at—”

“Oh, Gil,” Tarvek interrupted, his voice heavy with despair. “Come on. There may yet be time to rehabilitate you.”

Gil snatched his arm away as Tarvek reached for it. “Why should I need rehabilitation?” he demanded, scowling.

“Heavens, man, you’ve fallen in with _thespians!_ ”

“You don’t get to choose the company I keep,” Gil snapped. His resentful tone stung more than his words did, and Tarvek felt his lip curling in response.

“No,” he said, “I never did.”

He turned away, away from the rubble in the street, away from the disaster that was Gilgamesh Holzfäller, away, he hoped, from his own senseless infatuation.

“Hey.”

Gil’s voice froze him in place, and he cursed himself for it.

“I guess I’ll probably see you in classes?”

Of course. After that spectacular display of Sparkiness, it stood to reason that Gil had come to Paris for schooling. They would have no chance of avoiding each other.

Unable to trust his voice, Tarvek nodded.


End file.
